


Waking Memory

by servantofclio



Series: Sewers to Stars [16]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 20:11:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6092635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grunt's rite of passage wakes memories of Akuze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Memory

Shepard slams a fist into the keystone and waits. This time, the hammerfall seems louder, more resonant, like it vibrates in her eardrums a little longer. Sweat trickles down her cheek and evaporates off her skin as the wind kicks up, swirling dust around them. The dry, acrid air stings the inside of her nostrils. Just one more, Shepard tells herself as the sound of the hammer and its stentorian announcement fades away, one more trial, and they’ll be done with this.

Then the ground starts to shake.

Shepard flexes her knees to keep her stance, and it takes a fraction of a second to realize.

Oh, fuck, no.

Her gut tightens and her mouth instantly goes dry. Everything in her screams run, but there’s no time, nor even time for a warning before the thresher maw tears out of the ground shrieking.

Shepard moves.

For the first time, Shepard understands what Thane’s been talking about, about the body and mind being separate, because her mind is screaming too, gibbering wordlessly with no desire more complex than run and hide. But her body, reflexes trained and honed, moves without her thinking. Switches to incendiary ammo, fires, fires again, locks the rifle into place on her back and brings the particle beam to bear, all while running, dodging, bolting herself between one piece of cover after another.

She’s operating on autopilot too much to give orders, but she can hear Grunt laughing and Zaeed keeping up a steady stream of curses. They’re all right, then.

She throws herself to the side as a spray of acid spatters past her, sizzling and eating holes into the concrete. The maw screams and burrows back into the earth, peppered with her team’s shots. Shepard braces, finger on the odd-shaped level that powers the particle beam. Waits. A breeze brushes the hairs on the back of her neck. The ground trembles again. Shepard bites her lip and waits, tensed, trying to gauge which direction the shaking is coming from.

When the maw erupts out of the earth, Shepard breaks out of cover, spins, aims, and hits the lever. 

The trouble with a beam weapon, of course, is that you have to _keep aiming_ the thing, standing in the clear while you do. Her squadmates are shouting, but Shepard doesn’t take in the words. She keeps her eye on the maw, on the way its scales crackle and burn in the glow of the beam, following its movement as it screams and thrashes. She holds her ground until its mouth-parts bulge and pucker, and then she’s rolling out of the way before the acid splashes down.

It stinks, she’d forgotten that, a sour, pungent stench that mingles badly with the scorched smell of klixen and varren carcass.

She’d remembered the tremors of the earth beneath her feet, though. That, and the screaming.

When the maw finally collapses to earth, so much shattered meat, Shepard stares at it blankly. Grunt is still laughing, bellowing with joy as he runs up to the maw and slams his shoulder into it. Shepard blinks, her ears ringing. Her head seems to be spinning. Her stomach churns and her hands are shaking. She wants to drop the particle beam so she can… something. Collapse to the ground, or brace her hands on her knees, maybe empty her guts or shake this nausea, but she’s gripping the beam so tightly it’s going to take an act of will to release it.

And then, fucking Uvenk and his men storm over the rise.

She doesn’t even really remember that fight, afterward. She does remember the shaman proclaiming Grunt a member of the Urdnot clan. She’s managed to put her weapons away by then, and the urge to throw up has passed. Mostly. She’s still feeling detached, her body moving on autopilot. There is a lot of roaring and celebrating and someone (Wrex? Grunt?) pounds her on the shoulder, and someone else hands her a shot glass. She puts it to her lips and downs it without hesitation, ignoring the voice beside her exclaiming, “Shepard, wait—”

Whatever it is sets her tongue on fire. She comes back to herself with a snap, because this is the worst thing she has ever ingested. Ryncol, she realizes, as it threatens to melt her throat. It settles into her stomach like she swallowed a jar of napalm, and she whites out.

She wakes up lying down somewhere quiet and antiseptic-smelling. Probably not Tuchanka, then. Her eyelids twitch and she squints experimentally into a dim, familiar space.

“Ah, there you are,” Dr. Chakwas says, approaching. “Ryncol isn’t recommended for human consumption, Commander.”

“I’m fine,” Shepard says. Rasps, more like. Her throat feels like something shredded it. “’M a cyborg now.”

A soft snort. “Be that as it may, I’m still going to advise against drinking anything toxic deliberately.”

Shepard blinks a few times. Dr. Chakwas checks her pulse and looks at the monitors. “What’s the verdict, doc?”

She waits while Dr. Chakwas peers down her throat and asks her to cough and makes a note on her datapad. “You’re mending,” Dr. Chakwas says at length. “I’d prefer you stay here for observation for a few hours.”

“I’m fine,” Shepard croaks, struggling upright and looking resentfully at the IV line in her arm.

“Just fluids,” Dr. Chakwas says. “You were a little close to dehydration for my taste, Shepard.”

Shepard nods, acknowledging this. She can still feel the itch of dried sweat down her back, though her face seems to have been wiped clean. “I’m okay, really,” she repeats. Maybe if she keeps saying it she’ll sound more convincing. “I’d just really like a shower.”

“Hmm.” Dr. Chakwas considers, and Shepard does her best to look like a healthy, sane person. She must look convincing enough, because the doctor says, “Very well, but rest in your quarters, please.”

Shepard nods eagerly. “I absolutely will.”

In a couple of minutes, she’s unhooked from the IV and the monitoring equipment. She’s relieved to find that she’s not too stiff, as she heads for the exit.

“Oh, and Shepard—” says Dr. Chakwas.

Shepard stops. Her shoulders tense. “Yeah?”

“I heard about what happened down on Tuchanka. If you need to talk to someone…”

“I’m fine,” Shepard says, not turning around.

In the privacy of her quarters, she luxuriates under the hot spray. It washes away the remnants of sweat and blood and Tuchanka’s dust, soothes her bruised and aching muscles, soaks into her dry skin. By the time she’s done, toweling herself off and throwing on soft, casual exercise clothing instead of one of Cerberus’ damned uniforms, she almost feels like she really is fine. There’s only a little lingering disquiet in her stomach.

Someone knocks at her door. Shepard starts. People hardly ever come up to see her here. Usually they catch her as she makes her rounds. It takes her a minute to gather her wits and call, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Shepard.”

She hesitates for a moment, running her fingers through her damp hair, before keying open the door.

Garrus enters and gives her a searching look. Under the cool-eyed scrutiny, Shepard straightens, wondering what he sees, but she doesn’t have long to wonder before he speaks. His mandibles tilt in what she’s come to recognize as a wry smile. “Grunt’s been bragging about the thresher maw all over the ship, so I thought…”

A small puff of a laugh escapes her. “I’m all right.”

“Sure you are,” Garrus drawls, shaking his head. “Krogan rite of passage, huh? Only krogan would think throwing their adolescents against a thresher maw was a good idea.”

Shepard smiles. “What, don’t turians have some kind of wacky rite of passage, too?”

“We send all our fifteen-year-olds to basic training and put them through a battery of aptitude testing. It’s all very civilized. No one stresses about that at all.”

She snorts and gestures him further into her quarters. Garrus had been there on Edolus. He’d seen her fight to keep from falling to pieces then. He gets it, at least a little bit. More than most. She doesn’t have to keep up a front for him.

Something about that fact is simultaneously comforting and terrifying.

Shepard flops gracelessly onto the couch and waves a hand. “Have a seat.”

Garrus fidgets for a moment before sitting just around the bend of the L-shaped couch. Not too close, not too far away. He tilts his head, birdlike, watching her face. “What about humans?”

“We just say, congrats, you’re an adult now, enjoy your voting rights, do whatever you want.” Her brow crumples slightly at her own tone. “Human cultures used to have all kinds of rites of passage, but these days we don’t really send young people out to fight predators any more.”

“Just force them to deal with real life,” Garrus says sagely. “Far crueler than any mere predator.”

Shepard manages more of a laugh that time. “It’s not so bad for most people. Most eighteen-year-olds are still supported by their family, getting their education, maybe starting out in their first jobs. Not everyone’s, um…”

“On their own?” Garrus suggests.

Shepard’s mouth twitches in an awkward half-smile. If she closes her eyes, she can summon up the feel of home (wind atop a skyscraper, pizza and tea and steam) far too easily. “Yeah.”

In the silence that hangs afterward, she stretches out her legs, propping her feet on the table, not caring if she leaves a damp mark on the gleaming surface. “It wasn’t so bad for me, either.” She feels compelled to say something, even if it’s not the whole truth. “I joined the Alliance right off, and they took care of me.”

“I can see that.” Garrus rests one ankle on the opposite knee. The pose is casual, although he’s still wearing his armor, heavy and bulky in this private space.

Shepard sighs and slouches down into the couch, leaning her head onto the back of it. It’s a comfortable enough couch, she’ll give Cerberus that much.

“Shepard?”

She slides her eyes to the side and spots Garrus looking at her worriedly. “I really am all right. It’s just…”

“It was a thresher maw?” When she looks at Garrus again, he says, “No one really expects you to be okay with that, Shepard.”

She acknowledges that with a silent nod. “At least we killed it?” she offers. “Guess we could have used more heavy ordnance back on Akuze.” Her lips tighten.

“An overenthusiastic krogan or two might not have hurt, either.”

She remembers Grunt roaring over the thresher maw’s carcass and stifles a laugh. “Guess not.”

“Grunt’s really very excited, you know. Thought this was supposed to calm him down.”

“I guess we’ll see,” she says. “He did get to see the homeworld. Such as it is. He, uh. I don’t think he was very impressed. I guess the tank’s impressions of Tuchanka were a little misleading.”

Garrus laughs and tries to hide it in a cough when Shepard looks over.

She reaches out with a foot and pokes him in the knee. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” he protests.

“Don’t be an asshole, Garrus.”

“Hey, I had to listen to him tell me about the charming things the tank told him about turians. Some very creative ways of scaling us, I have to admit. But I think that gives me a pass for laughing at this. If that makes me a bad person, I can live with it.”

Shepard winces, her face twisting into a grimace. “Oh, God. I told him not to hassle you with that stuff.”

Garrus laughs. “Honestly, I think your human crew was more disturbed by Grunt’s idea of dinnertime conversation.”

Shepard groans and slides further into the couch. “I’ll, uh, I’ll talk to him about that.”

“Don’t worry about it, it was only the once. I think someone had a word with him.”

“Still,” Shepard grumbles, and Garrus laughs again.

They lapse into a silence that’s almost comfortable. Shepard stares up at the ceiling again, and her mind drifts back to the day.

“The thing that gets me—” she starts, and stops.

Garrus makes a wordless hum, encouraging.

“The thing that gets me is, it was only the one maw. Straight-up fight, during the day. It wasn’t like…” she has to push herself to keep talking through the rawness in her throat. “On Akuze we found—” (stumbled onto, were tricked onto) “—a whole nest of them. They came for us at night. It was chaos.”

“I can’t imagine,” Garrus says quietly, with something deep and rough in his subvocals.

“You really can’t,” Shepard agrees. She’s just as glad, though. She’d never wish that night on anyone she liked, or even felt indifferent, too.

Her worst enemy, sure. She’d tie up the Illusive Man and drop him in a thresher maw nest herself if shes could.

But now, six… no, eight… years later, the guilt and blame she used to carry around seem to have faded away, like a garment she wore to threads and then lost while moving. She can’t quite summon up the memory of it, even. She did what she could, and it wasn’t enough, but at least she endured.

Garrus’s voice breaks into her thoughts. “Want me to go?”

She shakes her head and scoots down the couch so she can lean against his armored shoulder. The cool hard surface of the ceramic plating is strangely comforting. “No, don’t.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head again. “Not really. Just talk to me. What were you doing up here while we were groundside?”

Garrus starts talking about firing algorithms and simulations and the ongoing problems of adapting the turian cannon schematics to Normandy’s hybrid design. The tech’s a bit over her head, but from time to time Shepard throws in a comment anyway. Mostly she listens to the pleasant resonance of his voice, letting her hair drying in curls and spikes. It’s restful.

Eventually she stops hearing the shriek of the maw in the back of her mind, and her fingers creep down to curl loosely around Garrus’s gauntleted hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Technically part of my Sewers to Stars crossover series, but this story has basically no crossover elements.


End file.
